


Someone to Watch the Cats

by Isbjorn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cats, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Honestly Everyone Should Ship It, House/Pet Sitting, Lestrade ships it, M/M, Med Student John, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Nonbinary Anderson, Nonbinary Character, Pining Sherlock, Professor Lestrade, Professor Sherlock, References to Destiel, References to Supernatural (TV), Sherlock and Lestrade have Doctorates, Slow Burn, The Cats Ship it Too, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isbjorn/pseuds/Isbjorn
Summary: Doctor Sherlock Holmes is sent out of the country unexpectedly when Doctor Gregory Lestrade backs out of an important lecture. With Mrs. Hudson out of town the same week Sherlock has no one to watch his cats.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big, huge, loving, shoutout to [May](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayraperezglez) and [Tara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmmcgee_writer92). You guys are the best friends and cheerleaders anyone could ask for.
> 
> Chapters 1 - 14 have now been brit-picked by the lovely [Miko](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherinsheadbitch91/profile)!

Doctor Sherlock Holmes stared at his laptop, mouth twisted into a frown and brow deeply furrowed. With a dramatic huff, he pushed his chair back from the desk and stormed from his office down the short hallway to Doctor Gregory Lestrade’s office. Sherlock began cursing the very cells that made-up Anderson’s person even before the door to Greg’s office had opened wide enough to see inside. The way in which the door swung wide to reveal an empty room cluttered with papers and books of all ages and lengths was nearly smug.

Sherlock’s face performed several acrobatic feats before he shoved a hand into his trench coat and pulled out his phone.

_I am going to kill Anderson, chop them up, and mail each part of their body to you in small packages on a bi-weekly basis until you either go insane or I run out of body parts. – SH_

Sending off the text Sherlock spun on his heel to stalk further down the office hallway to the lift set in the center of the building. Just as he stepped onto the lift and pressed the button for the first floor his phone buzzed in his pocket.

_Got the email about the lecture? – GL_

_I hate you. – SH_

_You realize I had no say in this right? - GL_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved his phone back into its pocket just as the metal doors of the lift began to peel open. The front lobby of the staff office building was as empty and silent as it ever was. Really, it was more of a glorified hallway than a proper lobby. Off to the left of the lift was a secretarial desk where Anderson stood scrolling through their phone; on the right were two doors leading to the bathrooms and a few sofas. Shoved in the corner between the front doors and the first of the sofas was a small stand with cheap coffee set out.

“Anderson.” Sherlock hissed. Anderson glanced up at the professor and rolled their eyes before looking back at their phone.

“Professor, what can I do for you?” The muscles between Sherlock’s shoulder blades tensed and he lifted his chin a bit at the purposeful insult.

“You sent me a rather distasteful email this morning. I think you may have confused me with a different professor.” Anderson looked up at Sherlock as innocently as they could manage and after a short silence Sherlock huffed angrily and leaned towards the desk. “You can’t mean to tell me that in less than a month I am supposed to be boarding a plane to some conference in Ireland to give a lecture that I have absolutely no time to prepare for.”

“I wouldn’t say you have _no_ time to prepare. The conference isn’t for a few weeks from now.” Anderson smirked up at the fuming professor and folded their hands on the counter in front of them, locking their fingers together over their phone, face down. “Besides, the University wanted Doctor Lestrade to do it. They only came to you after he turned them down. You should be talking to him.”

“Change it.” Sherlock snarled.

“I wouldn’t if I could.” Anderson grinned toothily. “It is simply too late to find another professor, besides I'm only the messenger.”

“I’m often convinced you are the devil himself in disguise. The only evidence against this conclusion is your utter incompetence and stupidity.” Sherlock turned on his heel and stomped back to the lift without another word.

 

-~-~-~-~-~-///-///-~-~-~-~-~-

 

“If you keep making that face it’ll get stuck like that, you know.” Sunlight spread across the cheap outdoor tabletop, casting shadows beneath the paper lunch bags set up between Sherlock and Lestrade. All around them the crisp smell of fresh cut grass and the upbeat chatter of University students on lunch break drifted in and out with varying levels of intensity. Sherlock turned the glare he had trained on his food to the professor sitting opposite him.

“I have no one to watch my cat. Or to water my plants.”

“What about Mrs. Hudson?”

“She is out of town that week.” Sherlock replied flippantly, looking to the side to watch as two freshmen began to yell at one another. “Besides, I don’t want her to clean my house; she will mess up one of my experiments.” Sherlock’s nose scrunched up in distaste and the potential fight ended in a ruckus of laughter.

Lestrade bit into his sandwich and chewed for a second before swallowing and setting it down again. “Well, I may know someone… He is one of my graduate medical students. I can send you his email?”

Three days later Sherlock had a pet sitter that seemed desperate enough not to ask questions if he found mold cultures under the bed or a human eyeball in the freezer. Two days after that Sherlock realized there was absolutely no hope of getting their schedules to line up enough to set up a formal meeting of any kind. Although he would have preferred to meet the man in person and show him where everything was in the flat Sherlock settled for a mini essay disguised as an email. The fact that the man didn’t send back a complaint or call him a controlling asshole was promising.


	2. Chapter 2

The temperature around the departure gates had dropped a significant amount since Sherlock arrived an hour before boarding was scheduled to begin. The seats were uncomfortable from the beginning and the crappy knock off coffee shop Sherlock had stopped at had over roasted the beans. Refusing to let on that the cold was beginning to bother him Sherlock slouched further in his seat, chilling coffee balanced on the seat beside him, and stared at the screen of his phone.

He had pulled it out when the flight attendant at their gate had announced their plane was delayed, to check for further information, however, the email just below the one he was looking for caught and held his attention first. The sender was an artificially generated University email and since it was a strand of numbers and not a nightmare inducing mix of abbreviations and shortenings of names it was a student email. But how did a student get his personal email?

After a second of hesitation Sherlock tentatively clicked the notification. A short paragraph appeared on the screen, neatly formatted like a proper letter, letting him know that John Watson had arrived at his flat and had found the key beneath the mat. Blinking at the message Sherlock tried to decide if it was odd that John had sent him an email simply to tell him he had arrived at Sherlock’s house.

“Sir? Is anyone sitting there?” Sherlock startled and looked up to see an old man gesturing at the seats across from his, blocked off by Sherlock’s long legs stretched into the aisle. A young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, stood just behind him looking anywhere but at Sherlock or the old man.

The frayed edge of the corner of the old man’s jacket and the boy’s converse shoes marked the pair as middle class. The older man was clearly the younger man’s grandfather due to his tone and vague protective stance. He could have been the boy’s father save for the relaxed set of the boy’s shoulders and the older man’s lack of hyper vigilance and willingness to talk to and even sit with a stranger. The boy was holding a boarding pass while the old man held a simple slip of paper meaning he was only accompanying the younger boy to the gate.

“Sir?” Sherlock blinked and then shook his head.

“No, no one is sitting there.”

“Thank you, my name is Henry.” Henry smiled and held out a hand to the still slouched, nearly out of his seat, professor. Sherlock considered snubbing the gesture but Lestrade’s constant displeased comments on his lack of basic social skills found him sitting up straighter, pulling his legs in, and letting the larger man’s hand engulf his own. The callouses sang manual labor and dedication. “This is my grandson Eliot.” Sherlock smirked and nodded to the boy.

“Doctor Sherlock Holmes.” Eliot seemed to perk up at Sherlock’s title, suddenly not as interested in the convenience store down the aisle though not yet looking near the two older men.

“A doctor? I knew you looked like a sharp fellow. Are you going to Ireland on business, then?” Henry settled into the chair across from Sherlock as Eliot hesitated and then sat beside him.

“I’m actually a professor. I have a doctorate in Biochemical Engineering and Criminal Pathology.” Sherlock crossed his arms and resigned himself to having a conversation, in the airport, during a flight delay, as both Eliot and Henry’s eyes widened a bit. “I’m flying to Ireland to talk at a conference for one of my colleagues.”

Another hour passed before the flight attendants’ shoulders collectedly relaxed and it was announced that boarding would finally begin for the flight to Ireland. As Sherlock queued for his seat on the plane Eliot glanced at his own ticket and then up at Sherlock.

“Looks like we will be sitting together.” The boy said quietly. His voice was deeper than the professor had expected and held that note of uncertainty that grew naturally from adolescent awkwardness.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were mute.” Sherlock replied without looking down. The boy frowned and turned away. “I’m sure your grandfather will be pleased. Not only do you know someone on the plane but you are also sitting right next to them. If something happens you’ll be fine.”

“How did you…”

“Oh, it was an easy conclusion. Your grandfather picked the smartest dressed, least threatening, male sitting at the gate and then held a conversation with me. His body language gained confidence as we talked and you grew more relaxed as we talked. This is obviously only your second or third time flying, you were both nervous, and your grandfather wanted to be sure someone on the plane would feel obligated to stand up for you or make sure you got to safety if something were to happen between here and Ireland.”

Eliot gaped up at Sherlock and then looked back to where his grandfather stood by the seats. Sherlock let the kid have the window seat and spent the entire flight answering questions about his last-minute lecture and the University he taught at back home. By the time they landed Eliot didn’t even seem to be remotely related to the kid Sherlock was introduced to at the beginning. Getting him to stop talking long enough to answer the questions was nearly impossible.


	3. Chapter 3

Exhausted. Protective. Has a younger sibling? Overworked. Dedicated. Grew up poor.

Sherlock looked down at the man curled up on his sofa contemplatively. A black ball of fur, that would have to be Allan, was curled against the man’s chest beneath a protective arm. Another, larger ball of tabby fur, Marlowe, had nestled itself between the back of the sofa and the back of the man. All three were deeply asleep. The faint sound of Allan purring had been audible even at the front door.

That first email at the airport hadn’t been the last. During Sherlock’s absence, he had received an unexpected daily update. At first it had seemed a bit annoying and frivolous. Surely, the man did not think Sherlock was crazy enough to require a daily picture of his cats. But after the third or fourth day he would find himself laying in the uncomfortable guest dorm bed, staring at the email inbox on his phone, waiting.

There would barely be a pause before his thumb clicked on the email as it popped up. A short paragraph or two would fill the screen, sometimes only a few sentences. At first Sherlock found a picture of one or both of his cats at the end of the emails but, occasionally, after the third day the man he had hired would pop up in the photos as well. It started off with a lap or an arm, maybe a hand, but the day before Sherlock left to come home the man had sent an actual selfie with Allan perched on his shoulder. There was no describing the eyes that crinkled into the lens of the camera or the way John’s smile, tight and controlled yet genuine, tightened the muscles of Sherlock’s heart and lungs. He had quickly closed the picture and abandoned his phone on the nightstand for the rest of the evening.

Of all the things Sherlock expected to deduce about the graduate student when they finally came face to face he hadn’t expected to come across the man passed out on the sofa protecting Sherlock’s cats like his life depended on it. The student’s blonde hair was plastered to his forehead and his mouth hung slightly open. Something akin to gratitude spread across his heart and Sherlock leaned down to place a hand cautiously on the man’s shoulder.

John’s eyes flew wide open, every muscle tensing as his hand flexed into a fist beneath his head and a breath rushed into his lungs. The tabby at his back jumped up and looked around bewildered before jumping down to the floor. The black ball of fur at the man’s chest looked up sleepily, bristling a bit before settling back contentedly at the sight of Sherlock. Sherlock took his hand back, head cocking to the side quizzically.

“Are you reaching for a gun or a knife?” John’s eyes cleared and he let out the breath he had been holding chuckling shakily.

“No… Neither. I’m sorry.” John shook his head as he carefully sat up on the sofa. “I shouldn’t be sleeping in the middle of the day.” Sherlock glanced at the medical textbooks open on the coffee table with a note laden notebook and a pen beside them. There was a cup of long-gone cold tea sitting on one of the coasters.

“It’s normal to sleep at odd times during the day when you’ve spent the entire night studying.” Sherlock shrugged dismissively.

“How did you…” John glanced at the table and then rubbed a hand over his face. “Right.” Silence fell between the two men as the tabby cat raced off to one of the back rooms. The black kitten had moved to nestle in the blonde’s lap, purring quietly and quickly falling back to sleep. John looked down at Allan and smiled affectionately. “Well, I guess I should get going then.”

There was a pause as Sherlock watched Allan stretch and shift into a different position before falling back to sleep. The pictures John had sent at the end of every email flashed in Sherlock’s mind and he glanced at the cold tea and the bags beneath John’s eyes before letting out a slow breath.

“Let me buy you dinner first, at least.” John looked up, eyes wide. “Consider it part of your payment for watching my cats, a thank you for the daily updates.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man beneath him and John flushed a bit, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh, the emails, yeah. I just thought you would want to know that your cats were being well taken care of since, you know, we never really got to meet in person beforehand.” Allan meowed plaintively as John picked him up and set him down on the sofa. John stood up and moved around Sherlock to start closing his books and packing them into the book bag set on the floor.

“Well, I’m going to take that as a yes on the food.” John shook his head without looking up.

“No, no, I don’t want to get in your way. You are probably itching to unpack and take a break.” Sherlock snorted and walked into the kitchen taking out his phone. An hour later John and Sherlock were sat on the sofa, surrounded by Allan, Marlowe, and a dozen or so boxes of Asian takeaway, watching a TV show about two brothers fighting monsters.

“The writers of this show are absolutely ridiculous.” Sherlock snorted, pushing around the noodles in his carton. John glance over at the professor and smiled. “The elder brother clearly has feelings for that scruffy looking man. They should’ve been together three seasons ago.”

“It’ll never happen.” John scoffed. “Are you going to finish that?” John’s brow furrowed in concern as he gestured at Sherlock’s food with his fork. The professor looked down at his carton and scoffed, setting it on the table. He had ordered enough food for two more out of a need to make the student feel more at ease than out of any real sense of hunger.

“I’m not that hungry.” John nodded and turned away glancing around the room that he had spent the last week staring at.

Sherlock’s flat was set up in an interesting fashion. The front door opened to the living room, the wall opposite the door filled with bookshelves where random knick-knacks were set in amongst the disorganized hoard of textbooks and nonfiction novels. To the right of the front door was a short, narrow hallway leading back to the bedroom and the flat’s only bathroom. Along that wall was the entertainment center.

The kitchen and dining area lay to the left of the door, separated from the living room by a single half way that ran only through the middle of the space, leaving a short entryway on either side. Along the top of the wall were various plants and small petri dishes. A large microscope sat on the small dining room table pushed into one corner and John had spent the better part of thirty minutes cleaning the pile of dishes during an episode of frustrated procrastination.

As the ending credits of the show scrolled past the screen John cleared his throat. “Well, I think it’s time for me to go.” Sherlock looked up as John stood from the sofa. Marlowe jumped from the back of the sofa and landed on the floor, walking to John and rubbing against his legs. “I’m going to miss these cats.” He said smiling fondly at the tabby.

“I could tell you all were getting pretty attached while I was gone.” A red color tinted John’s cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck again. “The place your renting now doesn’t allow pets, does it? And you didn’t have any growing up?”

John blinked at the professor and then answered with a simple, “yeah that’s the run of it.” Sherlock hummed and then stood as well, striding over to the suitcases he had left leaning in the short hallway to the bedroom. Pulling out his wallet he handed a handful of notes to John and glanced towards the bookshelves.

“Well, if you need help with any of your classes I have plenty of textbooks. You could come over and use it as an excuse to see the cats.” John could have sworn Sherlock was twisting his leg yet the offer didn’t feel like a joke. He paused, surely the professor wasn’t inviting him to come to his house for study sessions; that would just be inappropriate.

“I’ll see you on campus.” John offered lamely after a too long pause. He took the payment, gathered his book bag and the small duffel bag with his clothes and other items, and then let himself out the door. As the latch clicked behind him Sherlock sank into the sofa and let out a long sigh.


	4. Chapter 4

Rain lashed against the windows of Sherlock’s flat, adding a constant static sound to the keening of his violin. Marlowe had hidden himself somewhere in the flat as soon as the storm clouds had started smudging the London sky and Allan had perched himself on a hard won, miraculously empty, space on the half wall between the living room and kitchen. The black kitten’s tail flicked left to right as his green eyes studied the professor’s profile.

Sherlock’s long fingers stroked over the strings pressing, releasing, drawing a steady bow quickly and then haltingly along the instrument. Body swaying slightly with the rhythm and eyes squeezed shut he played from memory, adding notes in places that felt lacking. London’s shadows slanted across his body leaving slanted lines where the blinds had been opened and chasing raindrops like sweat down from Sherlock’s hair into his unbuttoned white shirt, down his torso, the front of his black slacks, and to his bare feet. Sherlock startled as Marlowe hit the floor with a hiss and paused just in time to hear knocking at his door.

When he turned around Marlowe was crouched in front of the door, rear-end wriggling in the air and muscles tensing. The professor gently placed his violin back on its stand and took three quick strides to the door, hurriedly picking Marlowe up just before he tried to leap for the handle once more.

Of the two things Sherlock expected to see on the other side of his door so late in the evening John, soaking wet without a jacket or umbrella, was neither. The med student looked exhausted; dark purple bruises beneath his vibrant eyes and a slackness to the muscles around his mouth. As Sherlock’s eyes adjusted to the bright lights of the hallway streaming into his unlit room he noticed that one of those purple bruises was considerably darker and larger than the other. A red line split John’s bottom lip straight down the middle and, as Sherlock’s eyes scanned over the rest of his body, he noticed the outline of a hand on one of John’s arms and that the student was favoring his right leg.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late…” The words snapped Sherlock into the present and he moved quickly to the side, gesturing John into the flat with his non-cat occupied arm.

“Wait here, I’ll grab a towel.” John hesitated before following Sherlock into the entryway. As the professor set Marlowe down on the sofa and disappeared into the back hallway he saw Allan jump down from his perch and prance over to purr against John’s legs. When he returned, towel in hand, John was sitting crisscross on the floor. The med student’s face was buried in Allan’s fur as the kitten nuzzled and rubbed it’s face against the side of John’s head. Marlowe glared accusingly at Sherlock from the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock cleared his throat and watched curiously as John shot straight up, blushing terribly. Allan meowed and pawed at John’s face in protest. For a moment, Sherlock contemplated making a joke about giving John some privacy with his cats but decided against it, instead holding the towel out to him.

“I put an old shirt and a pair of sweatpants on the bathroom counter for you to change into; just leave your clothes in the tub for now.” John opened his mouth as if to argue but the weight in his shoulders seemed to discourage him enough not to argue. With a satisfied nod, Sherlock walked into the kitchen and began searching for his tea pot.

It was hard not to stare at the man he had spent so little time with walking about his flat like he lived there. John quickly ran the towel through his hair and then walked into Sherlock’s bedroom like he had been changing in there for years. When he came back out, tussled, still bruised and tired looking from an obvious fight, he walked directly to the sofa and curled into a ball at one end. Marlowe and Allan seemed to have accepted him just as thoroughly as they had Sherlock, one curling at his feet while the other bullied their way into his lap. Sherlock made sure to use matching, unchipped, and unstained cups when he poured the tea.

A good hour had passed in silence as John sipped at Sherlock’s tea and cuddled his cats, Sherlock trying to deduce what had happened without staring too obviously, before John spoke. Without looking away from the empty space on the wall he had been staring at, John took a deep breath and then slowly let it out.

“Thank you for letting me barge into your flat again.” Sherlock watched as Marlowe shifted and began to kneed his paws against John’s leg, purring growing louder at the sound of his voice. Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement and then paused for a moment before reaching out with a foot to nudge at the cat laying across John’s feet.

“Where do you usually go when this happens?” John’s eyes widened and snapped to the professor as Sherlock brought the cup up to his lips and took his second or third sip. He had definitely over brewed the tea.

“What makes you think this isn’t the first time this has happened?” Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it again with a frown. For once he didn’t feel the immediate need to list every miniscule detail that screamed John’s abusive father to him.

It wasn’t that Sherlock lacked enthusiasm to share his deductions and the reasoning behind his knowledge; Sherlock desperately wanted to jump into the list of things he had noticed as soon as he had opened his door to see John standing in the hall. But, it had been a little over a week since Sherlock had last seen John and when he imagined that indescribably handsome face twisting into scorn or those lips forming the all too familiar word “freak” his stomach flipped and twisted up to crowd against his ribs.

“Doctor Holmes?” Sherlock blinked and then frowned.

“Sherlock,” He corrected. “The first day I met you, you were asleep on my sofa and when I woke you up you immediately reached under your pillow for a weapon. The speed of your reaction means it is still a reflex you rely on currently. The size of that imprint on your arm and the circumference of your black eye indicate a male opponent. Since you were wearing nothing but a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans, and the fact that it has been raining since 10am this morning, you had to have left from your house. So, unless I was wrong that day and you have a considerably older brother, you still live at home with your father who regularly verbally abuses you judging from your reluctance to let me do things for you, and occasionally physically abuses you.” Sherlock gestured with one hand to indicate John’s physical state. “The way you barely wince when you drank that tea, even with a split lip, means you have to deal with the sting often. You barely paused or shifted at all to find a comfortable position despite your favoring of your right leg, almost as if you are used to sitting in a way that minimizes discomfort from bruises.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hello! I apologize for the short chapter! I've been super busy this week with graduation for my kids at one job and then working a ton of extra hours at my other job. But now school is over! Which means more time to write! I'm so happy people are actually reading this story and to everyone who has left comments and kudos and who has subscribed: THANK YOU! You encourage me to continue posting and it's for y'all that I stayed up till 2am last night to make sure this chapter got finished and could be posted today before I rush off to work!)

Marlowe’s purrs emanated through the silence between John and Sherlock. Both men were tensed and holding their cups like shields before them. After a few tense seconds John moved to place his cup on the coffee table. Sherlock flinched, knuckles whitening around his own cup. John paused, catching the reaction out of the corner of his eye just as he set the cup down.

“Doct-Sherlock… I don’t know what kind of research you’ve done on me but I’m impressed.” Sherlock frowned, his brow furrowing deeply. He opened his mouth but John shook his head, looking down at the cat laid in his lap instead of the man at the other end of the sofa. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you would look me up. I mean we didn’t get a chance to meet at all or even talk that much before you let me basically live in your flat for a week.” John’s mouth twisted down and he winced. “But, you can’t tell anyone what you just said. Whatever else you found out about me; you can’t tell anyone.”

Allan stood up from his spot at John’s feet and hopped off the sofa, stalking towards the kitchen as Marlowe watched from John’s lap. John’s fingers repeatedly threaded through Marlowe’s thick fur as Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement, sorting through what John had said.

“I’m not going to say I didn’t look you up, because I did look through your student files at the university… However, there is no way I could’ve known you live with an abusive father.” Sherlock moved to take a sip of his drink and then thought better of it, placing the bitter tea on the coffee table beside John’s. “I’m not going to tell anyone else, either. Even if I was inclined to tell someone else; I don’t have friends.” Sherlock deadpanned. John gave him an incredulous look.

“Surely you have friends? Everyone has friends.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Don’t generalize, John. You’re smarter than that.” John scoffed and then looked away.

“If we’re agreed then, that this stays between us I mean, I’d like to drop it now.” Sherlock frowned but nodded his head. He nearly winced as the cliché _If you need to talk about it, you can talk to me_ floated through his mind like a banner. A banner that was quickly torn away.

The two men ended up turning to the television once again. A new episode of the show they had watched that first night was airing. As the men fought demons both within and without them on screen Sherlock found himself spacing out. His mind’s eye wandered until it found itself picturing John, in army green with all of the equipment, shooting shadowy figures in the darker alleyways of London. Or, given his major, perhaps the student would be running through bursts of gunfire and debris to reach the wounded of either side; patching up wounds and performing amputations regardless of the color on the men’s sleeves.

Sherlock’s flat was becoming uncomfortable stuffy as he pictured a stern John Watson glaring at a group of soldiers demanding he let them deal with one of his rebel patients.

“ _You can have him when I’ve finished with him and not a moment sooner._ ” He’d say with his fists planted on his hips. The soldiers would groan at his unfaltering response.

 _“What use is there, patchin’ a fella up, when we jus’ gon’ kill ‘im anyway?”_ A large man with a messy crewcut complained.

“ _Yeah,”_ Another, smaller soldier piped up, borrowing confidence in the shadow of the more muscular one. “ _It’s a waste of supplies._ ”

“ _Is it now? The next time you-_

A foot lightly kicked Sherlock’s leg, snapping him back to reality. The John Watson that greeted him from the corner of the sofa was decidedly not stern, nor was he wearing any green. His face and muscles had gone slack with sleep. The bruises on his eye and upper arm seemed darker now than when he first came in. John’s foot had slipped as he fell asleep.

A nearly imperceptible snore passed the student’s lips and Sherlock smirked. Now that the man was asleep Sherlock turned away from the program, that had only had a quarter of his attention in the first place, and focused on the John sleeping in front of him. The professor carefully mapped and catalogued every inch of the student’s body that he could see from his corner of the sofa. The professor had managed to get through every sign of obvious neglect and abuse as well as a few low confidence indicators when he realized that he was spending an inordinate amount of time looking at the other man’s lips.

There was decidedly too much of his brain dedicated to hypothesizing the feel and taste of them, the sound they would make sliding against skin, sliding against his skin, how they would look if John bit him. Sherlock stood up abruptly at that mental image, startling Marlowe, who had settled on the back of the sofa between them, and shook his head. He quickly walked to his briefcase, thrown somewhere by the door, and began pulling out his laptop. Sherlock allowed himself exactly three seconds to think about setting up next to John, with that errant foot pressed against his leg, before he hastily booted up the laptop and poured himself into reading every word of the essays he had just gotten in from his students the other day.


	6. Chapter 6

The number of files in Sherlock’s _To Be Graded_ file had gone down considerably when a plate landed beside Sherlock’s thigh. Marlowe stretched along Sherlock’s opposite thigh, tail thumping Sherlock’s hip as the cat looked lazily up at the man above them.

“Your fridge is a wasteland; don’t you ever eat?” Sherlock jumped at John’s voice and blinked up at him. The med student’s hair was tussled, a few crusts of sleep in the corners of his eyes. John’s bruises were a shade darker though Sherlock was not quite sure if it was the lighting or if they were slowly revealing the strength behind the marks. Sherlock’s eyes quickly skipped over the low waist band of John’s borrowed sweats to see Allan following closely behind the student.

“I eat out a lot.” John shook his head and then rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. Light was shining through the dampened window across the room, which explained why Sherlock’s screen had gotten dimmer as he read.

“Listen, I’m… Thanks for letting me crash on your sofa. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Sherlock leaned back against the wall behind him, his head hitting with a soft thunk. Allan sat down and began rubbing his head against John’s ankle, purring. Sherlock watched the black cat for a moment and then frowned.

“Why did you come here?” Sherlock asked quietly. John’s cheeks reddened and he looked away. Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he frowned further. “I mean you barely know me. I’m sure you have people you know better and would feel more comfortable with.” John gave a short laugh and shook his head.

“I just… I guess staying here for that week. It was like an escape, like I’d won a paid holiday or something.” Sherlock reached out and rubbed Allan’s ears, the knuckles of his hands brushing against the fabric of John’s borrowed sweats, as he thought over John’s explanation. “You are also a lot nicer than people make you out to be.” Sherlock froze and Allan meowed in protest, continuing to push his head against Sherlock’s palm.

“I’m not _nice_.” Sherlock scoffed, looking up at John. The student burst into laughter at the utter offense that showed in the professor’s expression. “I’m being _serious_ you arse!” John only shook his head and laughed harder. Sherlock grabbed his plate from the floor, picked up his laptop, and strode over to the sofa.

“Oh come on,” John gasped. “You left me fifty quid as a food allowance when I stayed to watch the cats! Then you bought me dinner and we’ve watched two episodes of this program together now. You also let me pass out on your sofa and instead of waking me up to show me the door, you left me alone and went to grade papers on the floor!” John followed Sherlock over to the sofa as he spoke and received an expression that was half pouting and half glaring for his troubles.

“Next you’ll be telling me Doctor Lestrade is the most competent and intellectual professor on staff.” Sherlock scoffed as he sat down on the sofa in a huff. John sat opposite him, in what was quickly becoming _his spot_ Sherlock noticed, and began tapping a finger against his chin as he looked into the mid distance.

“Well, he _is_ always on time for lectures, unlike some professors.”

“He can’t make tests to save his life. Do you even know how many of those questions and essay prompts I had to help him come up with? Besides, how would you know I’m not on time for all my lectures, you aren’t even in my department.”

“Word travels.” John smirked. Sherlock grabbed the pillow behind him and threw it at John who ducked with a laugh. The pillow landed on top of Marlowe, who hadn’t deemed it necessary to follow the two men into the living room. The cat gave a yelp and then ran indignantly off to the bedroom.

Despite the loudly fleeing cat and the ball of black fur trying to stealthily reach the sandwich Sherlock had placed on the coffee table Sherlock’s attention was captured entirely by the man sitting opposite him. It was strange, this feeling he had around John. No one else had ever held Sherlock’s interest for more than a moment or two. The only reason he and Lestrade were as close as they were, was due to the other professor’s complete lack of shame. Lestrade had spent a solid year hounding Sherlock with questions about lectures, test and quizzes, emails from the school, and invites to lunch and drinks when he was first brought on as a professor. But, this man, who had not even completed his Doctorate, had only to appear at Sherlock’s door and the professor was hooked.

A beep sounded from the direction of Marlowe’s escape and Sherlock’s brow furrowed as John blushed.

“I hope you don’t mind, I threw my clothes in your dryer.” Sherlock shook his head and watched as the man stood up and went to get his clothes. When he disappeared around the corner of the hallway Sherlock looked down at the forgotten sandwich just in time to see Allan crouched into position.

“Hey! Bugger off.” Sherlock scolded Allan quietly, snatching his sandwich and taking a large bite. The cat meowed pitifully and rolled over onto his back in feigned innocence. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and opened his laptop again, scrolling back to the place he had left off. When John returned, in the now dry clothes he had arrived in, he merely plopped down on the sofa beside Sherlock and leaned back, closing his eyes.

“I guess it’s actually time for me to go home now.” The man sighed as Sherlock paused from his grading to look up.

“Did you eat anything when you made me a sandwich?” John shook his head without opening his eyes.

“It felt weird enough going through your pantry, trying to find something that wasn’t expired or labeled for future experimentation. By the way, you never did explain why there are petri dishes of various molds on your counter.”

“Well, I’m not going to just send you back home without letting you eat something. There’s a cafe around the corner?” At that John looked up and blinked at the professor. The mold was of little importance outside of Sherlock’s experiments and therefore needed no more explaining. It didn’t hit Sherlock that John’s odd look might be due to his offer to take John to a cafe for lunch until a few moments later. Sherlock shut his laptop a bit more forcefully than he intended and stood up, quickly moving to the front door. “Alright then, come on.” He said, avoiding John’s questioning gaze.


	7. Chapter 7

As Sherlock locked the flat behind them a click sounded from one of the other doors.

“John? And Sherlock, dear!” The two men both turned at the sound of their names to see an older woman with short red hair coming out of one of the other flats. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing both of you today, what a pleasure.” She smiled at them each politely, eyes widening only slightly at the sight of John’s black eye, and John smiled back as Sherlock gave a short nod.

“Hello, John and I were just on our way to the cafe.” John perked up as the woman nodded and went to bend down for the mail at her door.

“Oh, let me get that for you.” He said, taking the three strides to her and bending over to grab the few envelopes.

“Thank you, love. You should put some ice on that bruise, dear.” She frowned and tutted as her eye caught the bruise on his arm. Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to say something but then shook her head and gave a short sigh. “Well, I’m glad to see you and Sherlock spending time together. You’ll be good for each other.” She all but giggled the last part, reaching out to give John’s cheek a cheerful, if carefully delicate, pat. Before either man could process the implication behind her statement she disappeared back into her flat, leaving behind the smell of brewing tea and biscuits.

“We’re not-” John spluttered at the closed door. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning and strode past the med student to the lift.

 

-~-~-~-~-~-///-///-~-~-~-~-~-

 

“I’m not letting you pay for me.” John pouted. Sherlock only smirked, waving the bill a bit from his side of the table.

“You don’t have a choice. I grabbed it first.” John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms on the table.

“But, you didn’t even eat anything!” Sherlock merely shrugged, placing his card in the slot and then catching their server’s eye to signal that he was ready to pay. The table between them was empty except for John’s plate, silverware and napkin neatly stacked on top of it. It had taken a solid three minutes for Sherlock to successfully threaten John into picking something off the regular menu instead of the children’s; He wasn’t leaving any room to start another argument over the bill.

The cafe was a small corner shop down the street from Sherlock’s flat. It was set up in the fashion of an 80’s café with a long counter displaying different meats, cheeses, and sandwich extras along the back wall. The two street-facing walls of the shop were floor to ceiling glass windows with two and four seating tables crowded along the edge. A narrow walkway separated the tables from the counter and left just enough room for the line to queue at the counter and a person to squeeze past it on their way to a table.

Thankfully the cafe was just tapering off from the lunch rush when John and Sherlock walked in. It was just busy enough not to be uncomfortably quiet and not so busy that the tables went unwashed between customers.

As the server grabbed John’s plate as well as the bill the front door chimed and John immediately stiffened, eyes fixed on a point behind Sherlock. The professor noticed the change in John’s demeanor immediately from the rapid melt of John’s soft smile into a worried frown to the flex in his arms as he clenched his hands into fists beneath the table.

“John?” The second person to call the students name that day had a voice decidedly less cheerful than Mrs. Hudson’s. “Who is this?” Sherlock glanced up at the man moving to stand at the edge of their table.

Really, he wasn’t that impressive to look at. The man gripped the edge of the table and leaned forwards, as if towering over the two men that were sitting would somehow intimidate them. He was merely an inch or two taller than John, however, Sherlock knew himself to be five inches taller than the man. Greying hair and the slight retreat around his temples betrayed the man’s age, yet the muscles he was slightly flexing were still to be considered if it came to a fight. It took only a quick glance at the man’s hands to confirm Sherlock’s suspicion. This man was John’s father.

Sherlock slid gracefully from his seat, forcing the man to shift out of his way and crane his neck to meet Sherlock’s eye. “Doctor Sherlock Holmes. I teach Biochemical Engineering and Criminal Pathology at John’s University.” The man’s hand twitched as if anticipating a handshake but Sherlock coldly ignored him to turn back to John. To the eyes that were flickering between Sherlock and his father, between appreciation and fear. The man’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“John is in med school.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, he did mention that.” The professor said slowly. The man’s face flushed, his teeth grinding together.

“So he wouldn’t have any need to meet with you.” John’s father spat out accusingly. Sherlock sighed and shook his head.

“Father, Doctor Holmes is the man that hired me to watch his flat and his cats while he was out of town.” John interrupted before Sherlock could reply. The student’s tone was ridged, controlled, far from the tone he took when he had been speaking with Sherlock. And that posture more fit into Sherlock’s brief military doctor fantasy than a student slogging through med school.

“You know what, I don’t bloody care anymore who this sod is or why you are here. You are coming home. Now.” The man grabbed John’s arm and yanked him up from his seat as Sherlock grimaced and glared at John’s father. He could feel the skin between his shoulder blades bristle as he scrambled for a reason to keep John just a moment longer.

“I don’t care how sodding old you are now, if you live under my roof you are going to follow my rules.” John’s dad growled as he pulled him away from Sherlock. “You can’t just flip off in the middle of the night to God knows where without a word.” Sherlock moved in front of the pair once more and cleared his throat, interrupting the man as he made to continue his lecture.

“John, if you need any more help with your studies, or anything else, you are welcome to visit at any time.” Sherlock said firmly, locking eyes with the man. John nodded mutely, blushing furiously and obviously forcing himself to maintain eye contact. His father grunted.

“John won’t be needing any of your help, _professor_.” Sherlock ignored the man, focusing instead on John’s face as he was pulled from the cafe and out onto the street. He watched the blonde until he was out of sight and then Sherlock slumped back into his chair and sighed.

A small package was waiting on Sherlock’s doorstep when he got home. Wrapped in a bit of paper and napkin were a few biscuits and a small note encouraging Sherlock to come over for dinner if he felt peckish later. Sherlock smiled and tucked the letter into a small basket by his door filled with other nearly identical invitations. As he sat down on the sofa to eat the biscuits Marlowe and Allan descended upon him to fight for their own bites in a protest of meows and starved looks.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So sorry about the update being late! I was out of state all last week, visiting my grandparents and I didn't bring my laptop with me. Whoops! Anyways here you go, sorry it isn't longer!)

Two weeks later Sherlock found himself sulking in a leather upholstered chair in the corner of Lestrade’s office. Lestrade had barely looked up from his laptop and the various documents spread across his desk when Sherlock dragged himself into the professor’s office. After a few silent moments of sulking he had sighed loudly to get the doctor’s attention and then recounted everything that had happened between him and John, from the night he had gotten home from the lecture to what had happened in the cafe. Sherlock told Lestrade about the strange daily updates and the pictures attached, about the fact that John had fought with his father before appearing at Sherlock’s flat, and how he was later dragged from the cafe by the man but he skipped past the bruises and the black eye.

“So, he hasn’t contacted you at all since then?” Sherlock frowned across the desk at Lestrade as he slouched further in his seat. His feet pushed against the front edge of Lestrade’s mahogany desk and his right knee brushed a stack of books piled up from the floor.

“No, I even fed him multiple times. I don’t know what else to do, George. Why did you have to send me such an attractive and interesting student?”

“Well, I mean ‘you can come over if you need to borrow a textbook’ isn’t the most obvious come-on on the planet.” Lestrade dead panned, rolling his eyes. “Besides, I’ve never known you to be the type of person to get all loopy over a nicely shaped arse.”

“It’s not like I don’t have a reputation for being a cold asshole.” Sherlock huffed. “Surely, any attempt at being friendly on my end should be an immediate red flag that I’m probably propositioning you.” Lestrade laughed and hit his desk.

“You know, maybe that’s it. Maybe he thinks you’re just jerking him off. It sounds like he has enough to deal with at home, you can’t blame him for not playing games.” The only answer was a grunt of annoyance. The two professors sat in silence for a moment thinking over the issue before a knock sounded on the door. Anderson strode into the room with a handful of papers and their nose in the air.

“Professor Holmes, there is a student waiting on the sofas downstairs for you. He has been sitting there for an hour now and the stupid way he keeps staring at the front of my sweater is starting to get on my nerves. It’s like he is waiting for it to suddenly become see through, the look of confusion on his face is insufferable, and it is plain rude.” Anderson slapped the papers in their hand onto Lestrade’s desk and then turned on their heel and marched out of the room again. The two professors glanced at each other.

“I think I’m going to take my break,” Sherlock smirked. Lestrade narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Oh come on, you’re no fun Garret.” The other professor’s expression only deepened and Sherlock rolled his eyes sighing dramatically before hoisting himself up and out of the chair. “Fine, I’ll drag the asshole with me on my way out. He can whine at me while I’m walking to my car and I can tune him out without rescheduling his appointment.”

Sherlock’s smirk lasted the entire lift ride. It vanished when a tall, lanky man, with something that was attempting to pass as a beard on his face, leapt to his feet and started talking as soon as the professor had stepped past the threshold of the lift. The student followed a breath behind the professor as Sherlock strolled towards the front doors.

As Sherlock’s hand landed on the door handle he turned on the man coldly, cutting him off and informing him that 1) The questions he had asked in his email were clearly answered in the syllabus 2) Doctor Sherlock Holmes did not take late work and 3) University did _not_ assign fucking _make up work._ Honestly, sometimes Sherlock wouldn’t have been surprised to find out he had been teaching High Schoolers this entire time without realizing it.

Everyone came to University these days expecting to be spoon fed information and given reminders every few hours with instructions on what to do and how to do it. No one wanted to think for themselves or create their own schedule. Without parents to wake them up when they slept through their alarms, students expected their professors to make special exceptions for tardiness due to hang overs and laziness. They wanted to party all weekend and then be given extra time to catch up on the homework they should have done instead.

Sherlock was not one to hold anyone’s hand. When the student began to run through his list of excuses Sherlock tuned him out directly and walked the rest of the way to his car planning a very extensive research assignment to spring on the class last minute as punishment. If Sherlock had to listen to this load of shite the man would pay for it with the wrath of his classmates as well.


	9. Chapter 9

_It’s not as though he is extraordinary in any particular way. -SH_

_I’m sleeping u utter arse. -GL_

_Seeing as you’ve responded to my text that is inherently untrue. Back to my point; John isn’t a genius… He is very hard working, however, and he obviously cares a lot for others. The man is very loyal. -SH_

Sherlock paused for a second, glancing at Allan dozing in the hallway to his bedroom.

_The cats like him at the very least. That’s more than I can say for you. -SH_

_Oh com off ti you can’t have leazrfned that so soon you’ve barely spen ttime togather and ur cats are a menace. I’m surprised they tolerat u. -GL_

_We’ve spent enough time together for the proper deductions to be possible. Jesus, you’re typing is shite. -SH_

_IT’S BLOODY 3AM!!! -GL_

Sherlock scoffed and tossed his phone onto the sofa as he continued pacing across the floor of his living room. He hadn’t stopped thinking over his and George’s conversation earlier that day, running it over and over in his head, tearing each sentence apart and reconstructing it. Sherlock looked over at the side of the sofa he had not sat in since that first night John had curled so perfectly into the corner to watch television with him.

Marlowe was curled up on the arm above the spot watching some speck of dust, or stray piece of lint, shift inconspicuously through the air. The cat had also been acting oddly in John’s absence. Marlowe had taken to looking into each room at various times of day and then coming up to meow disapprovingly at Sherlock’s feet when he found each one empty. The tabby barely tolerated anyone but Sherlock, the fact that he had taken so quickly to John was also rather puzzling. _Perhaps John had brought catnip with him?_

The trill of his phone brought his attention back to the discarded device. With a slight huff of annoyance Sherlock picked up the phone and answered without checking the caller id. His face fell as the voice of his brother drifted through the phone. As soon as they hung up he was crafting an email to John as well as a separate one from his university email announcing lectures would be cancelled tomorrow.

 

            _John,_

_I’m going out of town on Friday and won’t be home until Monday. Is it possible for you to stay at my flat again? It is terribly last minute but very important._

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

Within two hours Sherlock had John’s confirmation and a bag of necessities packed away for the drive to his parent’s house in the countryside. The words “ _Is everything alright?_ ” glared from the midst of John’s email as if highlighted. Sherlock wondered at the answer to that question as a text from his brother previewed at the top of the screen.

_Mummy has been sent to the ICU… -MH_


	10. Chapter 10

“Sir, with all due respect, I have a medical degree and years of experience working in a hospital.” Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes. The precise calluses worn into the man’s pale hands gave as much away. The doctor looked from Sherlock’s pinched brow and down turned lips to Mycroft’s sullen stare. “I can assure you that we are doing our best to help your mum. She is in the hands of our most skilled physicians.” Sherlock sighed and threw up his hands.

“But how can I be sure of that when you won’t let me see her! You’ve had her for hours now. Surely if you were any good at your job she’d be able to have at least _one_ visitor by now!” Mycroft echoed Sherlock’s sigh, though his was more apologetic and long suffering. He gripped Sherlock’s arm tightly, leading him with difficulty towards the chairs, and gave a polite yet dismissive nod to the doctor.

“Really now, must you pick a fight with every person you meet?” Sherlock yanked his arm from his brother’s grasp and gave his best pout. The electric overhead lights seemed brighter than the sun shining through the wide windows; amplified by the polished steel and tile covering the entirety of the private waiting room. There was not a hint of color, as if even a glimpse of blue or green would breed disease and mayhem like a cracked petri dish. The magazines on the side tables boasted trendy new diets and tips on how to gain muscle quickly through simple workouts. A single plant, some muted dark green color, seemed to wilt in the corner beside the door.

“I _despise_ hospitals.” Sherlock spat as Mycroft made himself comfortable in one of the chairs lined against the wall. His brother leaned back and watched as Sherlock began to pace the length of the room agitatedly. An hour passed before Mycroft snapped.

“Will you _please_ sit down; you’re going to make me throw up.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and nearly earned himself a slap from Mycroft’s umbrella when the brothers were interrupted by the return of one of mummy’s doctors. Both men snapped to attention as the doctor looked down at his chart and then back up at the two men.

“Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes?” The two brothers nodded in impatient unity. “Right then, Mrs. Holmes is in stable condition for now. If you would like to see her I can let you in now but you must refrain from waking or disturbing her in any way. She needs all the rest she can get.”

It took nearly every ounce of willpower Sherlock had not to shove the doctor out of the way and march past him. The room they were led to was as colorless as the one they waited in and utterly devoid of magazines and plants. Mrs. Holmes seemed to have had the color bleached from her as well. The hand Sherlock held in both of his was limp and considerably colder than was usual. Sherlock and Mycroft locked eyes, the quiet buzzing of the heart monitor the only sound between them.

Mycroft’s glares kept the nurses at bay until well past visiting hours as the men watched over their mother. Sherlock held her hand the entire time while his brother shifted between gently moving the hair from her eyes and standing guard at the window and door in turn. Mrs. Holmes did not stir, her only contribution the quiet beeping of machinery; a cold and calculated reassurance that she had not passed.

The bandages coiled around her wrists were very pointedly ignored in sight and conversation. Mummy wasn’t feeling well, but she would be fine, there was nothing to discuss. If Sherlock opened his mouth his mother would wake, simply to talk above him. If Mycroft glanced at the linen bracelets covering a good part of her forearms she would tsk and carry on about the dangers of cooking or rock climbing. She would ask about their jobs, the weather, the political climate in Asia. Their mother was alright and neither son should be worried.

When Sherlock returned to his hotel, the cheapest and most appalling one nearest to the hospital chosen simply so that his brother would not follow, he sat at the edge of his bed and stared at the door for a long moment. Closing his eyes, he cleared his thoughts of all the cobwebs that had collected throughout the day. Sherlock pushed and shoved and deleted until nothing but empty, malleable space remained, and then he started with the smell of biscuits.

Slowly a room without doors or windows unfurled in his mind. A large and unlit fireplace stood along one wall, a small chair and a couch, a coffee table, horridly boring wallpaper. There was a desk in one corner. Pillows and cushions and a throw blanket draped around Sherlock’s shoulders where he sat cross legged on the sofa. His cats appeared, of course, as they always did. A tea cup, brimming with perfectly warm and sugared tea sat before him on the table. Sherlock looked up expecting the scene to have come to completion when he looked at the chair to his left and saw a pair of stunningly blue green eyes staring back at him.

_“Why are you here?”_ Sherlock asked the mirage of one John Watson. The man had the audacity to smile knowingly and give him a look that carried all the certainty Sherlock’s mind held. John was safe. He was as safe as the sofa beneath him, the blanket around his shoulders, the tabby cat curled in his lap, and the black one laid on the mantle. He had no right to be the warmth of a good cup of tea or the comforting smell of fresh biscuits. John Watson had barely crossed the threshold of Sherlock’s life and yet the professor found himself yearning to be the tea cup held so firmly in his hands. Blue china, a match to the one before him on the coffee table.

Moments passed, an hour, time dripped like honey down the length of a wooden spoon, and slowly Sherlock let the image before him fade and drift away until he was back in his hotel. Sherlock’s eyes refocused until they found him looking at a phone clutched in his lap. The notification light at the top left corner blinked up at him, yellow for emails blue for text messages red for everything else. When he unlocked the screen he pointedly ignored the twisting of his heart as he clicked on the email from John.

Marlowe was ecstatic to see John again, the tabby had refused to leave his side since he arrived. The med student assured Sherlock that he had not brought catnip that first visit and would not bring it this time either. Apparently, it wasn’t good for cats to have. Sherlock wondered if this was something John had known before meeting Sherlock or if he had searched the information out afterward. Either way it was best not to read too much into things.

Allan had burrowed beneath Sherlock’s pillows and refused to come out despite John’s varied attempts at bribing the kitten. John suspected it was because the cat could sense that something was wrong. The question from before stood unanswered from John’s first reply and repeated almost hesitantly in the second. Sherlock paused, he didn’t let himself recognize the disappointment over the lack of photo attachments to the email, but he let himself read over the text multiple times before reluctantly hitting reply.

_Everything is not alright_. He watched himself type as though through a screen of his own. Life is an illusion. Nothing truly exists; it is all an elaborate play of imagination. _Allan will sulk until his stomach can be heard from the living room and then he will run to you at the first hint of food._ No one is real. Sherlock read through the very paragraphs of his reply, edited a few typos, and hit send. When it comes down to it the connections we see between ourselves and the people around us is only further proof that it has all come from us. Ten minutes passed and the screen lit up. _Incoming Call_ it announced. _John Watson_ the caller ID informed. _Safe_ , his brain pleaded.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock wasn’t sure the thumb he watched slide across the screen was his, the hand that brought that phone up to his ear definitely did not seem to be his even if logic dictated that it was.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice called through the receiver. Sherlock’s lips parted but no sound came forward. “Can you hear me?” Sherlock’s jaw worked, his lips moved, his lungs filled and then emptied. Nothing. The professor closed his eyes, one hand fisted in the material of his jeans as the other clutched tighter around the phone.

“Yes.”

“Tell me how to help.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he frowned.

“I don’t need help, I just need a moment to rest.” The short silence that followed nearly held a tangible disbelief. “What are you doing right now?”

“Studying for an exam.” Sherlock opened his eyes, let his gaze settle somewhere near the floor. Every muscle in his body was tight, he felt the need to escape but he wasn’t sure from what or to where. He tried to picture John, sitting on the sofa back at his flat with Marlowe, highlighting passages in a thick textbook, writing down small thoughts in the margins.

“Will you… Will you read it to me?” There was a beat of silence, Sherlock closed his eyes again and started to quickly add information on how the process of reading a text aloud helped memorize it before he was interrupted by John.

“Yes.” There was a beat of silence and then John cleared his throat and began to read where he had presumably left off when he called Sherlock. The professor laid on his side and listened, eyes closed, to John’s voice, letting the rough tenor smooth along the edges of his thoughts. Each word ground down upon the ragged, racing edges his trip to the hospital had torn until he found himself falling asleep. The next morning, Sherlock woke to a sore spot on his cheek where the phone had dug into his jaw and a numb ear. The call log recorded last night’s conversation at two and a half hours.

 

-~-~-~-~-~-///-///-~-~-~-~-~-

 

Sherlock was certain that the hospital conspired to make their chairs as uncomfortable as possible to encourage some sort of empathy for the patients laying in the beds. Or perhaps they did it simply to discourage anyone else from cluttering and dirtying their rooms. No matter how Sherlock fidgeted or shifted his legs there was no escape from the cold bite of metal or the uncomfortable pain in his side from contorting himself away from the offending silver. The professor resolved to stare a hole into the side of the doctor’s head in an attempt to revolt against their collective aim to make any visit to the hospital a terrible experience.

“Mrs. Holmes, I understand your desire to be at home, however, I am not convinced it would be the best decision. You say that your sons live over three hours away in London and your husband seems to be a very busy man…” Dr. Grundy stood with his arms crossed at the foot of Mrs. Holmes’ bed. The starch white lab coat, carefully gelled hair, and singular crease to the front of the doctor’s undershirt gave away his affair with one of the nurses. Sherlock presumed it would be the one who had come in, not once but twice, to “check on his mother” since the doctor had come to discuss Mrs. Holmes’ discharge.

“I assure you, she will be well looked after. My father has an office at home and they have a maid that lives with them.” The doctor’s frown deepened and Mycroft’s forced smile tightened.

“As Mrs. Holmes’ doctor I would feel better if she were to stay a few more days so that we could have our psychiatrist examine her. The wounds you came in with could have been fatal had they been deeper or placed differently. You lost a great deal of blood.”

“Enough,” Sherlock sat straighter in his chair as Mrs. Holmes began to speak for the first time since waking. It was rare for him to hear her voice so clearly and, as horrible as it made him feel afterwards, he rather looked forwards to the few times when someone provoked her over the scars and bandages she did so little to hide. It was always when someone came to her supposed rescue that Sherlock and Mycroft’s mum seemed most in control of herself and steadfast. Her shoulders set back in a pose to challenge Achilles, her chin held high in defiance, her slim hands rested one atop the other as if it were not a hospital bed but a throne that she sat upon.

“It seems to me that we are all making a fuss over something of little to no consequence. I’ll be the first to admit I am not the most self-aware person to have graced England, however, that is no reason to bring in a psychiatrist. I can personally assure you that I will be just as safe at home with my husband and my maid than anywhere else you may think to put me. Did they not find me where I had fallen and bring me to the hospital in record time? Both of my sons have driven all the way here to be at my side for this minor visit; if I was having issues with my mental state I have no doubts that they would be at my side at a moment’s notice.” The doctor shifted uncomfortably and looked over both Mycroft and Sherlock in turn.

“Do either of you have anything else to say on the matter?” The question was met with silence and Dr. Grundy turned to Sherlock in frustration. “Surely, you have something to say. With the show you put on upon arriving, I’m surprised it was your brother, and not you, who argued with me when I suggested extending your mum’s stay.”

All eyes in the room turned to look at Sherlock with varying expressions of warning, frustration, and expectancy. Mycroft was hiding grey hairs, it was obvious that the shade of his hair color was a bit off which meant he was dying it. The man would only dye his hair, and dye it nearly the exact same color as it was originally, if he were hiding grey hairs. It was just a matter of cause then; stress or age?

“Sherlock, dear?” Sherlock blinked at his mother.

“Your wife knows about the affair.” Mrs. Holmes’ brow creased in confusion and the doctor’s eyes widened comically. Mycroft simply turned to face the window, expression unreadable.

“Excuse me?” The doctor exclaimed, partly in confusion and a bit defensively.

“The nurse who came in twice now since you’ve arrived is your lover. She barely glanced at the chart when she came in and her eyes were unfocused when she talked to my mum. She was paying too much attention to her peripheral vision. You’ve been spending more time on your appearance of late, an unusual amount of time, and the perfume your mistress wears is one that lingers long after it’s been sprayed. She is not allowed to wear anything more than deodorant in the hospital due to the risk of aggravating allergies or weak senses of patients and yet I still caught a faint whiff of it as she passed my chair.

The way your eyes gravitated towards not-quite polite parts of her anatomy indicates you haven’t been intimate as much as usual either; it must be hard finding the time for a proper shag what with conflicting schedules and exhaustingly long hours at work and it must be frustrating that your wife no longer wants to give it up either. The only reason your wife would withhold sex is that she knows, she has to have smelled the perfume on your clothes and with the amount of make up your lover wears she is sure to have left some smudged on your clothing at some point.”

The room feel deadly quiet. Dr. Grundy simply stared at the professor in shock, Mycroft offered no noticeable reaction, Mrs. Holmes looked from her son to the doctor and then back to Sherlock.

“Well, that was a bit rude, dear.” Mrs. Holmes said at last.

“He asked me what I thought.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Please leave.” The doctor spluttered.


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft took care of the paperwork as the Holmes’ were quickly, yet not unkindly, discharged from the hospital. After Dr. Grundy had nearly ran from the room, face redder than it had any right to be, a different doctor had returned with the necessary forms and instructions. Sherlock didn’t say a word as things were signed and promises were made. He was silent in the hallway with Mycroft as they waited for Mrs. Holmes to change out of the hospital gown and into her regular clothing.

They had nearly made it back to their parent’s house when Mycroft’s eyes flicked to the back seat through the rearview mirror. “Your silence is becoming a bit unnerving; if you have something to say just say it.” In the passenger seat Mrs. Holmes watched the trees and brush pass by with a vacant expression. Sherlock wondered vaguely if she even saw the scenery.

“I have nothing to talk about.” Sherlock sighed at last, tearing his eyes from his mother to the ones looking back at him through the mirror. “I’m not going to fill the silence with inane small talk just to make you comfortable. Just put on the radio.” Mycroft held his gaze for a moment or two before returning to the abandoned road. The car fell back into silence.

The car had barely stopped moving when Sherlock flung his door open and marched past the maid and into the large front doors of the Holmes estate. He ignored the frustrated call of his name and stormed up the stairs, down a short hall, and into a large mahogany office.

“Ah, Sherlock, welcome back. Where is your mother and Mycroft?” Unlike his son, Mr. Holmes had no problems with letting the grey in his hair remain visible. He wore the wear and tear of his age like a badge of honor. It was another sign of proof that he was wiser, more capable, and more knowledgeable about anything of consequence than those around him. The desk he sat at was immaculately clean, nothing but a stray pen and a thick stack of papers marring the surface. Everything else was placed neatly off to the side in an organizer or holder. The monitor at one corner was thin and sleek, taking up as little space as possible. Sherlock was not surprised in the least to see his father in a dress shirt and suit pants though he would not have left the house all day.

“You didn’t come to the hospital.” Sherlock’s father barely blinked. He simply sighed and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Yes, well, we all know your mother. I have a lot of paperwork to go through,” he said with a gesture towards the stack of papers, “she doesn’t need me there every time she gets admitted. Besides Donovan took care of everything just fine.” Sherlock snarled at his father, hands fisting at his sides.

“You should have been there.”

“Well, I wasn’t.” Mr. Holmes unfolded his arms and settled forwards in his chair, taking a sheet of paper from the stack and setting it before him. He began to read calmly, completely ignoring his son who stood trembling before him.

“This conversation isn’t over.” Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth. “You can’t treat her like this.” Mr. Holmes signed the bottom of the page with a bit more force than was needed and took another sheet. “You could spare a moment to at least drive to the hospital with her. She was dying!” Mr. Holmes sighed and slammed his pen down on the table.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, your mother is always dying. She is at that hospital at least once every month. I simply _cannot_ be there every time she feels as though she might faint. She always comes back right as rain. Now if you don’t mind I have work to do; unlike some in this family, I do not have the luxury to call in a sick day.” Sherlock bristled but his father turned back to his papers and waved a flippant hand in his direction as he picked up the discarded pen.

For a short moment, Sherlock had the very clear image of himself striding across the space between them, gripping the letter opener from its designated place, and stabbing his father in the eye. He could almost feel the hot blood wetting the spaces between his fingers, staining his fingertips, pooling in his palms. The door shut behind him with a loud _click_ , Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath.

He opened his eyes to the nearly perpetually annoyed ones of Donovan. “Lunch is ready downstairs.” Sherlock gave a short nod of acknowledgement which the maid answered with the roll of her eyes and a huff of displeasure. Sherlock wondered at the barely concealed bruise just at the bend of her neck. Had she been having visitors again? It couldn’t be the old gardener; he never left bruises. Sherlock resolved to break into the detached house later and try to deduce the new man in Donovan’s life. That is if he had time before he left the next morning.

 

-~-~-~-~-~-///-///-~-~-~-~-~-

 

Lunch was just as silent as the car ride earlier and Sherlock spent the rest of the day at his mother’s side as she wandered the grounds restlessly. Mr. Holmes did not appear for lunch and neglected to show up for dinner, having both brought up to his office. It was almost like the man was actively avoiding his wife and sons, though Sherlock suspected the man’s pride would never actually allow him to do such a thing. Children avoided those they had problems with; adults faced them head on and used every opportunity to look them in the eyes.

“Are you going to have a drink with us before bed?” His mother asked quietly as Sherlock continued to push around the food on his plate.

“Actually, I think I’ll be going to bed now.” Mycroft met Sherlock’s eyes and gave a short nod.

“When do you plan on leaving tomorrow?” His brother asked curiously.

“As soon as possible.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the short reply and his mother watched as he nearly leapt from his chair and rushed from the room. Upstairs his bedroom was exactly how he had left it the last time he had stayed at the estate. Sherlock’s phone informed him he had two text messages from Lestrade and an email from John. With a quick glance at the message preview Sherlock swiped the text message notification out of the way and opened the email from John.

 _“Allan has finally come out of his hiding spot… had to leave them for a few hours and when I came back the little bugger was waiting by the food bowl crying bloody murder…”_ Sherlock smirked, Allan had always been a bit of a drama queen. “ _Marlowe still won’t let me out of his sight… He bullies his way into the bathroom and sits on the counter while I use the toilet or shower…”_ The rest of the email was short and, unsurprisingly, included no mention the incident last night. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether he appreciated the lack of questions about what exactly was happening and why he had wanted John to read his textbook to him. _I suppose I owe Gerry a favor now_. Sherlock thought drily. At the end of the email was a single picture of Marlowe curled in John’s arm with a look of pure bliss on his face. On the floor, Sherlock could see Allan eating out of the cat bowls in the kitchen.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock lay on his back staring up at the ceiling above him. In one nearly limp hand a cigarette, unlit and unmarred, dangled dangerously between two long fingers. The professor brought up his heavy hand to present the circular object before his eyes. He twirled it between the pads of his fingers in the air before him and he felt his body sink deeper into the bed beneath him. Each twirl of the cigarette, each second he suspended his arm up and in the air, weighed heavier and heavier until the muscles began to tremble and Sherlock at last let his arm fall back beside him. The cigarette fell as well, tumbling onto the carpeted floor uselessly.

 _Your clothes are wrinkling_. Mummy’s voice chided softly at the back of his mind. _The world is turning on its axis. Atlas may shrug but the world turns on_. He replied distantly. Somewhere in the house Mycroft was returning to his room, having only had one drink and the smallest portion of dinner his mum allowed he’d still feel an inevitable need to rededicate himself to some diet or other in the morning. Sherlock prayed he wouldn’t be back at the toilet. _No, that was a teenager’s careless decision; he wouldn’t risk his teeth now_. Sherlock grimaced and closed his eyes thinking of his brother’s dyed hair.

Mummy was still in the study. The dark circles beneath her eyes and the slight shake to her fingers betrayed the return of her insomnia. She might have a glass or two more, maybe a Whisky or a Screwdriver, before pulling herself from her chair and making the journey into her bedroom. The longer she waited the less the risk of finding her husband still tossing and turning beneath the sheets. The less the risk of finding his eyes watching as she dressed down and slipped on her nightgown. Sherlock shut the path his thoughts had taken off.

His body felt heavier, immovable; as if he had turned to stone in the space of an hour. If only his eyes would stay closed. They had opened, seemingly of their own accord, to stare unfocused at the ceiling yet again. He felt an itch, buried beneath the layers of stone immobility, a twitch in his fingers for the strings of his violin. If he had brought it he could have risen from this stupor, he could have at least told himself he would get up to play it. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t here to chide him for waking her up at an ungodly hour of the morning. Or was it still night? _What is time but a hallucination of the mind to make sense of the rise and fall of life. To count down the slow crawl towards eventual ruin._

Sherlock let his head fall to one side and his gaze fixed on the dresser beside the bedroom door. _What am I doing?_ He wondered as his eyes began to lose focus once more. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, holder of two Doctorates, a renter in London, a man with two cats who teaches at a local University. _Is that all?_ His mind wondered at the same time it asked: _For what?_ Things were beginning to get out of hand. Sherlock shut his eyes. It was never a good sign when his thoughts began to talk over one another. Was he trembling or was the bed shaking?

Sherlock turned his head to the other side, his arm moved bumping his hand against the outline of his phone. He remembered throwing it aside after staring at John’s picture. It had landed facedown and as he turned it he noticed that the screen was lit. _Ah, so that was where the vibrating came from_. He swiped the answer button just before the ringing would have given up and played the voicemail tone.

“Hello?”

“Sherlock, it’s John.” Sherlock blinked into the dark room. He pulled the phone from his ear and checked the time.

“John? It’s nearly two in the morning.”

“I’m sorry,” John paused uncertainly. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” Sherlock was beginning to feel more in control of his body; as if the sluggishness of a few moments earlier was fading away. A few beats of silence passed between them; nothing but the distant static of the line and the very faint sound of breathing. Sherlock let his eyes close slowly once more as he settled back into the calm surrounding him. “Did you need something?” He asked at last, reluctantly breaking the quiet.

“Not in particular…” John took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then slowly let it out. “I’m not sure why I called, if I’m being honest. Just can’t sleep for some reason.” Sherlock smirked and huffed out a short laugh.

“It seems the feeling is mutual. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours.”

“Marlowe is laying on top of my head.” John said sounding slightly amused and slightly annoyed. This time the student earned a full laugh punched from Sherlock’s gut.

“He does like to do that on occasion, sorry.”

“I’ve missed him, Allan too.” John confessed.

“Well, I told you to come over if you needed anything.”

“You were serious?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he opened his eyes again and sat up a bit. The creak of the bed seemed to echo through the room and Sherlock winced.

“Why would I have offered it otherwise?”

“I thought you were just being polite, you know, humoring me…” Sherlock could nearly see the flush that was most likely blooming across John Watson’s face. He suddenly wished they were having this conversation face to face. He wished he could hear Marlowe purring or reach out and run his fingers through Allan’s black fur, or John’s darker blonde. _Is it just as soft?_ Sherlock shook his head.

“I’m beginning to agree with Geffrey and that’s not something I ever wanted to say out loud.”

“Geffrey?”

“Dr. Lestrade.”

“Oh, his name’s Gregory.” John offered a bit lamely. Sherlock laughed at John’s confusion.

“Sure, Geoff, anyways he thinks you haven’t heard my reputation. Did you even know who I was before he introduced us?”

“Geo… Of course I knew who you were. I have a friend in your department, she says everyone thinks you’re a nightmare.” Sherlock winced again and after a short pause he heard John sigh. “You know, I’ve always thought that was bull. If you hear students saying a teacher is too strict or an arse it usually says more about the student than the teacher. I’ve found the teachers that have the worst reputation among the students is actually the most dedicated and serious.”

“We’ve had this conversation before.” Sherlock frowned suddenly. “You called me _nice_.”

“I still stand by my assessment.” John said smugly.

“You’re loony.” The professor accused. John merely laughed and even slightly distorted through the line between them Sherlock thought it was a lovely laugh.

“Anyways, just because you’re an arse to your students doesn’t mean you’re that way in person.” Sherlock’s frown deepened, he bit his cheek to keep it that way though technically John wouldn’t have been able to tell either way.

“You’ve obviously never seen me around Lestrade, or _Anderson_.”

“Anderson? The secretary?” Sherlock scowled, this time genuinely, his hands fisting a bit unconsciously.

“They take every opportunity to make my life hell.” John chuckled in amusement that broke on a yawn.

“I think I’ll let you go now.” He said reluctantly. “What time will you be home tomorrow?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Sherlock said relaxing once more. He picked at the corner of his sheets. “Hopefully I’ll be out of this house by the end of breakfast.”

“Surely it isn’t _that_ bad.” John chuckled.

“You’ve never met my family.” Sherlock replied sullenly. There was a short pause and then Sherlock said, “Goodnight John.”

“See you tomorrow, Sherlock.”


	14. Chapter 14

Sunlight had begun to weakly filter in through the curtains of Sherlock’s room by the time he began drifting off to sleep. Just as his mind began to shut off the bed vibrated once more and Sherlock groaned, eyes startling open to blink blearily at the ceiling.

_Need help with lecture. Come over for lunch? -GL_

Sherlock groaned even louder and threw an arm over his face. He supposed Lestrade couldn’t have known Sherlock had been on the verge of sleep, nevertheless, he was still tempted to suspect Gerard of some sort of evil treachery.

_I can’t help you. -SH_

_Can’t or won’t? -GL_

_Both. I’m at my parents. -SH_

A knock at the door sounded as Sherlock pressed send and he debated completely ignoring it and curling back beneath the covers. The knock sounded again, louder and more insistent. It seemed Sherlock was unfortunately popular this morning.

“Mr. Holmes, breakfast is ready downstairs.” A voice muffled by thick wood and well insulated walls called out.

“Sod off!” Sherlock yelled in response. There was a loud and distressed sigh.

“Come down when you feel like it then, or starve, see if I care.” Donovan huffed. Sherlock glared at the door but eventually slid off the bed and begun dressing himself. The thought of food had begun to turn his stomach and the more Sherlock replayed the conversation with John over the phone the more he found himself wanting to leave immediately. Maybe, if he left now, Sherlock could get back to the flat in time to take John to lunch. The idea had him stuffing what little items he had unpacked into his duffel bag faster and marching downstairs.

Two pairs of eyes turned to regard Sherlock when he entered the dining room and something like anger would have flared beneath Sherlock’s skin if it weren’t for the heavy exhaustion pressing it down. There was no reason to expect his father to have come down for breakfast; it was obvious his place at the table had not been set for quite some time. His mother’s eyes flickered to his duffel and back to his face carrying a touch of hurt and confusion.

“Are you leaving already?” Mycroft asked, his own gaze holding nothing but judgement and a near-complete lack of interest.

“I have work to do.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Though, the work Sherlock had to do to prepare for lectures Monday could wait until later that night and all his grading for the last assignment was done and submitted. The professor spent most of the Summer outlining and planning his lectures and assignments in-between the few Summer courses he taught and so the only prep left was a few tweaks or additions. Mrs. Holmes frowned.

“Surely you can stay a bit longer. At least until breakfast is over.” Sherlock blinked at his mother. _Two full sentences, she must be having a decent day for once._ The professor hesitated, considering. It wasn’t often his mother spoke, let alone argued for something. If he ignored her now it would just serve to further encourage her lasting silence. Ignoring his mother’s request would certainly not help any with her increasingly frequent suicide attempts. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak just as Sherlock pulled a chair from the table and reluctantly sat down, allowing the duffel to slide to the floor beside his chair. Across the table, Mycroft nodded approvingly and Mrs. Holmes beamed.

There wasn’t much to be said, what with Mrs. Holmes voluntary muteness and Mycroft’s secretive and largely classified job, yet the silence of breakfast was softer than the one they had endured the day before. Mrs. Holmes worried over her son’s health in the way she passed Mycroft a second piece of toast after her grudgingly finished his first. She gave him a concerned and stern look when he began to pick at and crumble bits of it on his plate. There was a warmth in the way Mrs. Holmes passed Sherlock the butter and a hint of curiosity in her eyes when his cell buzzed in his pocket. Everything was brighter as the sunlight slowly peeked between large tufts of clouds to shine across the room.

With all the drama, occasional self-centeredness, and melancholy surrounding his mother Sherlock still loved her more than any other human being. Of course, the companionable atmosphere held between Mrs. Holmes and her sons as they ate was never going to last when the storm that had ripped into their lives when Sherlock turned six stalked the halls.

“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” Sherlock glanced at Mr. Holmes, standing in the doorway to the dining room in his suit. He had tucked his hands into his front pockets, thumbs out a display of dominance, and was slightly puffing out his chest as if unconsciously trying to make himself appear larger. The man had also positioned himself square in the middle of the doorway, blocking both exit and entrance.

“I’ve said everything I intend to.” Sherlock replied, placing his half-eaten toast back onto the plate and finishing his tea. With a quick kiss to his mother’s cheek and a nod to Mycroft Sherlock stood up from the table and shouldered his bag once more. He turned to face Mr. Holmes face to face.

“Do you even know how much I’ve done for this family?” Mr. Holmes asked levelly. “I’m the only reason you have this house and I think I deserve a bit more respect than this.” Sherlock bristled a bit, glaring at the man in front of him.

“I don’t live here any longer. You don’t own me or my mother and you’ve never had a hope of owning Mycroft.” Sherlock growled. Mr. Holmes’ eyes narrowed.

“I wonder how long that will last.” The challenge hung in the air between them thickening like a physically barrier. It was one Sherlock dared not acknowledge. Letting his father bring up the past and the time Sherlock had been kicked from his apartment and fired for using illegal substances would only end in hurt pride. Sherlock hadn’t touched an ounce of the stuff since he grabbed his current job at the University and Lestrade had helped him off the cigarettes and benders. He hadn’t fallen into any vices in years and yet that wouldn’t deter his father from holding it against his character.

Sherlock wondered if he would have to physically push past his father before the man slowly stepped aside. Each step Sherlock took past the man and through the front door was calculated and careful. Not too fast as to be classified as a retreat and not too slow as to be seen as frightened. It was nearly ridiculous and once the door was closed behind him Sherlock resumed his normally quick pace to the unattached garage.

 

-~-~-~-~-~-///-///-~-~-~-~-~-

 

Sherlock heard Allan before he saw him. As soon as the professor had put his key in the lock he had heard a loud meow from within the flat. Small claws had just set to an attempt to ruin the bottom of the front door when Sherlock pulled it out of the cat’s reach. The small black kitten fell back to all fours and then meowed happily as he latched himself onto Sherlock’s pant leg instead.

“Welcome home.” Sherlock looked up at the second greeting he received to find John smiling at him from the kitchen, holding a purring Marlowe in one arm. His hip was cocked to the side to support the added weight and he was definitely wearing the shirt and joggers Sherlock had let him borrow before. Golden skin peeked from just beneath the shirt where it rode up on the side Marlowe was being held, John’s hair stuck out in all directions, and some sleep was still lingering in the corners of John’s eyes. It was all the professor could do not to drop his bag and maul the med student before he’d even properly entered the flat.

“Hello,” Sherlock said after a too long pause, finally shutting the door behind him as an excuse to look away from the man. John turned back to the counter where he had a few sandwich ingredients neatly spread over the counter. He had been making a sandwich with just his right-hand instead of putting Marlowe down and using both like any normal person. Sherlock was definitely _not_ going to think this was anything less than impractical. It certainly wasn’t _cute_.

“You’re back a bit late, but I’m only just now making lunch. Do you want a sandwich or something?” John nodded to the stove at his side where a kettle was set to boil. “Tea’s on as well.”

“I’ll take some tea.” Sherlock said, stooping down to give Allan a few rubs of attention before stepping into the kitchen to give Marlowe’s chin a few scratches. John barely looked up from his task as Sherlock maneuvered into his personal space to get at the cat in his arms.

“I had to pick the bugger up. It was either that or get knocked on my arse every time I tried to move.” Sherlock chuckled.

“He has taken a liking to you.” The professor agreed, leaning back against the counter but not really moving out of John’s space. John hummed, the fingers of his left-hand curling to pet Marlowe a bit awkwardly while he finished the first sandwich with his other and started on a second.

“You’re eating this sandwich by the way.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s smirk and sighed.

“I’m not hungry.” He whined, thinking of the half-eaten toast he’d had at his parent’s house.

“I don’t care.” John sang back. Sherlock frowned at John before pushing off the counter and going to unpack his bag. When everything was thrown back roughly where it belonged he walked back out and slouched into one of the dining room chairs. John was already sat at the other, one plate in front of him and another at the spot Sherlock now occupied. Two cups of tea also sat on the table.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, picking up the tea without a second glance at the sandwich. John hummed in acknowledgement and as the two men ate in silence Sherlock felt that companionable warmth in the air that held so tenuously between his brother and mum earlier at breakfast. The professor glanced over at John, at the way he stared off into the distance, lost in his own thoughts. The crease in his brow and the upcoming University exams made the subject of John’s thoughts transparently clear. “Do you have any plans for what’s left of today?” Sherlock asked, startling John a bit. The student flushed as his eyes focused back on Sherlock’s.

“What? No, not really.” John’s eyes shifted from Sherlock’s at that last part and the professor’s brow furrowed.

“That’s not necessarily the truth, is it?” Wide eyes looked back at Sherlock’s and the flush across John’s cheeks deepened.

“Well, I did tell Molly I’d meet up with her at some point for coffee.” John admitted reluctantly. The twinge of jealousy that crawled up Sherlock’s spine was embarrassing to say the least and also something he was going to ignore.

“Molly?” Sherlock prompted.

“She’s a friend, a year below me in the program. She’s focusing more on autopsies and things, though. I’m more interested in living patients.” John chuckled. Sherlock grinned thinking about the eyeballs at the back of his freezer.

“I guess, she and I have something in common then.” He murmured. John turned a confused smile on Sherlock.

“What was that?” Sherlock shook his head and John shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be today, though. If you wanted to watch the new episode of the show, we were watching?” John’s blush showed no signs of giving up or fading and Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

“Sure.” Sherlock said after a second. John gestured to the, still untouched sandwich in front of him.

“You’ve got to eat that first though.” He said with a grin. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the med student.

“Oh, I do?” Sherlock drawled, rolling his eyes. “What are you going to do if I don’t? Sit on me?” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to flush. As soon as the words left his lips an image of John pushing Sherlock’s chair back and straddling his hips flooded his inner mind and he nearly choked. Sherlock quickly took a sip from his tea, using the cup to hide his expression.

“I was thinking more of a subtle approach.” John mused, swinging his leg up to rest his heel on the edge of Sherlock’s chair. He then bent his foot forward to hook it through the back, locking Sherlock in on one side. “I’ve also hidden the remote and I’m not going to help you find it until you finish the sandwich.” John challenged, crossing his arms smugly.

Now, Sherlock didn’t consider himself the strongest man on the planet. But, he was fairly confident he could push John’s leg off the chair with minimal injury to either of them, depending on how hard John fought him, and it didn’t take a genius to find a remote in such a small flat. Sherlock reasoned he had a clear advantage and yet he set his cup down and began to eat the sandwich anyways. It was worth it to earn the grin John sent his way.

It turns out the remote was merely buried under a few cushions on the sofa. After unearthing the thing Sherlock settled into his corner and John settled into his. Marlowe curled between them and Allan ran off into the bedroom for god knows what reason. Despite the cliffhanger from the previous episode Sherlock somehow caught his eyes continuously wandering back to sneak glances at John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was VERY tempted to end the chapter right before Sherlock got home. You're welcome. <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update!

Sherlock thought he was being rather inconspicuous about it as well until John huffed a laugh and turned to him at a commercial break about halfway through.

“You’re going to lose track of the plot if you keep staring at me, you know?” Sherlock blushed and turned away.

“I’m not _staring_. I was… looking at Marlowe.” _Smooth, silk smooth_. Sherlock winced inwardly. Marlowe perked up from the space between them, tail flicking. John hummed. The silence was slowly turning into something awkwardly uncomfortable. Sherlock found himself wishing the commercials would end quickly, John’s eyes burned into his skin, everything felt too close.

“I don’t mind you know… The staring I mean.” Sherlock’s eyes widened but he kept them glued to the screen. Every muscle in his body was taught to the point of aching. _It’s a dream. I’m going to wake up in my old bedroom._ “Sherlock?” The professor’s breath caught in his throat as he felt more than heard John shift on the coach beside him. Suddenly his view was obstructed by a looming blonde figure.

John’s tanned skin and thick eyelashes were enough to win anyone over. The fact that he had eyes the color of the ocean’s tide, ever changing according to the weather and current, and toned muscle, that betrayed his high school rugby years, was frankly unfair. And now this gorgeous man was leaning over Sherlock’s frozen body, hands landing on either side of the sofa’s backrest just brushing his shoulders. John’s lips were chapped and pink and closer than Sherlock had dared hope for. Sherlock’s lungs were screaming for air, air that his brain reasoned, was utterly nonexistent save behind those lips. He closed his eyes reluctantly and just as John’s face came close enough for Sherlock to feel each breath two different ringtones echoed off the walls of the flat.

John jerked back, cheeks flaming, and Sherlock felt everything in him on a spiritual level break into pieces and shatter onto the floor. He just barely managed the energy to open his eyes and catch John striding over to the dining room table where he had left his phone.

“Hullo?” Sherlock watched as John’s shoulders straightened and his posture corrected unconsciously. The tightening of John’s hands gave the caller away almost immediately. “Yes, sir… I’m sorry… Yes…” John’s jaw flexed as he ground his teeth together and Sherlock made the Herculean effort to get off the sofa and walk over to stand next to John.

The muscles in his fingers twitched as he glanced down at John’s hand but he stubbornly kept them at his side. _It was a mistake_. Sherlock reasoned as his eyes traveled up John’s body and back to his lips. Despite the lack of a logical excuse for _why_ John had nearly kissed him Sherlock concluded that the answer was _not_ that John actually liked him. Sherlock was a hard to please, hard to befriend, arse of a person and John was like bottled sunlight with just enough grit at the bottom to enhance its shine. He turned away with a grimace as John hung up the phone.

“I have to leave.” John said quietly, glaring at the phone in his hand. Sherlock picked apart the corner of the sofa with his own gaze.

“It’s not normal, you know.” The med student sighed heavily, his shoulders slouching further inward. “You’re a proper adult now; he shouldn’t have that much control over your life.” John shook his head slightly before Sherlock had even stopped talking.

“I live in his house, I don’t pay rent or food, he practically raised me on his own. He’s right, he deserves more from me.” Sherlock finally looked over at John and frowned.

“He’s your father. You don’t owe him anything for doing what is necessary to keep you alive.”

“It’s different; you don’t know my family.” John’s gaze softened but it didn’t leave his phone and the lack of eye contact was grating against Sherlock’s nerves. He reached out and gripped John’s chin with one slender hand, turning it to face him and holding it there firmly until John’s eyes connected with his.

“I may not know everything about your family, but I know enough.” Sherlock paused and then forced himself to continue. “Trust me, respect isn’t saying how high when he asks you to jump. Respect isn’t flinching away from his hands when he reaches out to you. Respect isn’t letting him bruise your skin and fracture your bones. Respect isn’t letting someone tear you to pieces just because they fed and clothed you for most of your life. It was his decision to keep you and it is his responsibility to take care of you, and you owe him nothing.”

John blinked rapidly, tears shining at the corners of his eyes and a frown pulling at his mouth. The thoughts and doubts racing through his mind were nearly visible in his eyes and Sherlock refused to let him go as he attempted to twist his chin out of his grasp. Sherlock’s other hand came up to lay gently over the place where John’s father had dug the stain of his fingers into his arm.

“It is never okay for someone to hurt you.” For a moment, it seemed as if John would collapse and then he was firmly and purposefully twisting away. This time Sherlock let go. He watched as John shoved his phone into his pocket and gathered up his duffel bag, already packed and ready to go. The med student seemed to notice then exactly what he was still wearing and a deep flush covered his cheeks as he mumbled that he was going to change and disappeared into Sherlock’s room.

A minute passed and then five and Sherlock strode over to his room and knocked on the door. When there was no answer he opened the door to find John crumpled on the floor, face buried in Allan’s fur. Marlowe had jumped from the couch to follow Sherlock and seemed to almost glare at Allan before nuzzling his way between the student’s face and Allan’s stomach. The laugh that broke out of John’s throat was cracked and hollow and Sherlock gently fell to his knees next to the ball of fur.

Sherlock opened his mouth, another argument on his tongue and a point about how John’s current state was only more proof that his father was abusing him rested just behind it but when he saw John’s shoulders tense and tremble almost imperceptibly his jaw clicked shut. _What am I supposed to do though?_ Sherlock frowned and looked over the student once more, his arm coming up to awkwardly hover over John’s back. He almost immediately lowered his arm again. Sherlock settled for resting his forehead against John’s shoulder, hoping he could just send his intentions through his skin, past the thin fabric, and into John’s bones. His hands fisted in his lap uselessly and his brow furrowed in frustration. Then, John was turning, his face nestling into Sherlock’s neck and moving Sherlock’s head beside his. The purring mess of cats was now between them and John’s knees rested firmly against Sherlock’s. A deep breath passed between them.

“Move in with me.” Sherlock whispered. His eyes popped open as soon as the words left his mouth and he heard John’s breath hitch. The med student began to pull away but Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him firmly.

“Sherlock… I can’t. I can’t afford even a third of your rent.” Sherlock shrugged, gently so as not jostle John too much.

“Then don’t pay rent. I’ve been paying it just fine since I moved in.” John laughed bitterly.

“I’m not some sort of _house wife_ and I’m not going to live with you because you _pity_ me.” He said attempting to struggle out of Sherlock’s embrace yet again. This time Sherlock tightened his arms, hooking his chin over John’s shoulder, and squeezing his eyes shut.

“It isn’t pity.” He said, voice firm. “I want you to move in with me.”

“Sherlock, I’m not a charity case!” John fumed.

“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not as nice as you seem to assume I am? I wouldn’t give my left hand to save Anderson’s life, I’d be more willing to give up my sight than do a favour for anyone, and I give my students research essays as a punishment for annoying me.” Sherlock leaned back to glare into John’s eyes. “I’m asking you because I _want_ to.”

 _I want to come home to you cradling Marlowe in the kitchen and napping with Allan on the sofa. I want to lay beside you as you fall asleep and watch the sunrise reflected on your face. I want to watch as you become part of my home bit by bit and I want you to start to see me as yours._ The look on John’s face was unreadable and so full of emotion Sherlock almost panicked that he had said any of what his brain had admitted out loud.

“You… You don’t have a second bed.” John protested at last.

“I can sleep on the couch; I rarely ever make it to the bed anyways.” John blinked at him and then laughed. His cheeks flushed and he looked away, mouth working a bit before he finally spoke.

“I don’t have a job. All I have is what allowance my father gives me every week, and he is on my account…” Sherlock grinned.

“I’m certain I know someone who can take care of that last part and as for a job, I can help you apply.” Sherlock’s eyes widened suddenly. “Actually, Lestrade has been bugging me for a while about hiring a teacher’s aide. You could grade papers for me and handle my emails and the University will be the one signing your checks so you won’t have to worry about being indebted to me or any of that nonsense.”

John’s blush deepened a shade or two and the wetness in his eyes came back. “I appreciate it, really, Sherlock. I wish I could but he would _kill_ me.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that would help.” John replied bitterly shaking his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Now hoarding: Comments, constructive criticism, and kudos. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Scream with me on [Tumblr](https://spaceacedown.tumblr.com)!


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